Medals Not Worn In Public
by shedoc
Summary: Watson is recalled to active service and one of the Irregulars goes missing. READ THE WARNING
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing

Authors Notes: Strong tones of Holmes/Watson friendship/brotherhood.

Warnings – I discuss the vile practice of men preying on young boys for unsavoury purposes in this one – and Holmes comes to the wrong conclusion (I can't say anything else cos it'll ruin the suspense). Just thought that you should know that topic comes up later on; nothing graphic is described though.

**Medals Not Worn In Public**

**Prologue – part one – Holmes**

The gallery was quiet, peaceful and smelt of oil paint. Light and space combined to give it a majestic, reverent atmosphere, seeking to humble the patrons that graced its stately halls. There was a weight to the silence that forbade a carelessly loud footfall or a voice raised above a murmur; in fact the very air seemed to demand a worshipful reverence for its contents.

Sherlock Holmes was well aware that places like this brought out the worst in him – he'd certainly skirted ejection from several of them in the company of his dearest and most long suffering friend. He viewed it almost as a sport – just how far could he go to scandalise the guards, the other patrons and his Watson before the dear man pulled Holmes out of the gallery by his elbow, scolding under his breath like a beleaguered elder brother the whole way. Today the desire to be noisy and uncouth was even more attractive than ever before; temptation presented in the dual forms of several high level members of the Palace staff and his _other_ brother – the one related to him by blood.

The gallery was hosting a collection of paintings; modern and old, themed around the subject of War. The exhibition had attracted more than the usual notice in the press, as one of the modern paintings had a quite singular effect upon several of the patrons that had come to view them. Set in the Afghanistan region, more than one man had fallen, paralysed with fear, anxiety or some other nervous condition in this section of the gallery and speculation was rife as to why. One had even knocked his hapless escort to the ground, pulling her violently away from the painting and needing restraints applied before he calmed. Some accused the artist of doctoring his oils with hallucinogenic agents, some of consorting with demons and other such unsavoury and non-existent beings. Scotland Yard had been called in – which was absurd as there was no crime being committed that the Yarder's could possibly detect – and there had been several factions of the public that had called for the removal of the artists work. Apparently this was not possible as the gallery had signed an agreement with the artist that his work would be on public display for as long as the rest of the exhibition ran.

Of course the gallery had enjoyed the immense notoriety of the paintings to their fullest, holding several high society functions in the gallery and stirring up something of a froth over the whole matter; indeed the night was considered incomplete if someone didn't have hysterics or a nervous attack before a painting. The artist refused to speak in public about the painting in question, possibly at the galleries demand, and the prices of those pieces that were for sale had been raised to exploit the entire situation.

Watson had followed the stories in the press, reading several of the more amusing articles to Holmes at the breakfast or dinner table. Holmes had asked if his friend intended to go visit the exhibit: the answer had been a firm no.

"I'm far too busy to go gawping at landscapes and battlefields, Holmes," Watson had said with a tight smile that had not touched his usually warm eyes. That warmth had been absent in the wake of the sleuth's question – Holmes regretted asking it and spoiling the camaraderie of their breakfast table. On reflection it had been a tactless thing to ask a veteran whose sleep was still marred by the ghosts of men he could not save. Holmes had let the subject drop and was relieved to find that Watson's mood had settled to its usual even level by dinnertime. He'd made an especial effort to play Watson's favourites after dinner than night, an oblique apology that his dear friend had complimented by falling serenely to sleep in his armchair by the fire.

"Sherlock, do pay attention," Mycroft sighed heavily and the younger brother folded his arms crossly, glancing from his older brother to the Palace official and back with impatience.

"The Palace is concerned about the affect of the painting in question upon Her Majesty when she comes for a private viewing of the exhibition next week," Holmes repeated back rapidly, his voice echoing strongly back to him, "Though what on earth you think I can do about the painting…"

"Mr Holmes assured me that…" the man from the Palace spoke up and Sherlock waved his hand in dismissal. The official was one of those 'royal by association' chaps, who expected all sorts of deference and fawning simply because of their service to their Queen. Holmes detested such pretence and as far as he was concerned, pompous egos were made to be deflated: something else he delighted in scandalising Watson with.

"I really cannot help you Mycroft," Holmes informed his brother, who heaved a sigh. It was a sound Sherlock had heard all through his childhood – one that almost shouted 'you're-being-quite-obtuse-and-I-can't-believe-I-have-to-explain-this-to-you'. He hated that sigh.

"Your artistic knowledge…"

"Mycroft," Holmes interrupted in a tone that all younger siblings used when the elder Hadn't Paid Attention To A Fundamental Fact, "I am a _musician_, not a painter."

"As I was saying," Mycroft fixed him with a portentous glare, and the little functionary from the palace had finally worked out that he was in the cross-fire, deflated his ego and started to back away, "Your artistic knowledge is _not_ the reason that you are here. All of the men affected shared a single common trait with each other that makes for quite a compelling argument regarding the cause of this situation. I have summoned an expert to the scene; you are here to support him."

"You wish me to support an expert in paintings?" Holmes scoffed, wondering if his brother had reached his years of forgetfulness earlier than one would have expected.

"Not at all," Mycroft glanced behind Holmes with a satisfied gleam to his eye, which was taken as a warning by the younger sibling that he would not like whatever was about to unfold. Footsteps sounded in the gallery, distorted by the echoes and the rapid pace of the walker, however it was not enough to mask the identity of the man coming towards them as quickly as his war injuries would allow. Holmes sent his brother such a scathing glare that the man actually stepped back in surprise, before turning to greet the victim of Mycroft's blind sense of duty to the Crown.

"I got your telegram Holmes," Watson looked him over briefly, the dear chap assessing him for potential injury or illness, something that was so second nature that both men barely paid attention to the little ritual now.

Experts in art and chemistry had examined the painting to no avail, so Mycroft had called in an expert in the battlefields of Afghanistan.

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	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing

Authors Notes: Strong tones of Holmes/Watson friendship/brotherhood.

Warnings – I discuss the vile practice of men preying on young boys for unsavoury purposes in this one – and Holmes comes to the wrong conclusion (I can't say anything else cos it'll ruin the suspense). Just thought that you should know that topic comes up later on; nothing graphic is described though.

**Medals Not Worn In Public**

**Prologue – part two – Watson**

The telegram that had summoned me to the gallery had been brief, yet pointed: COME AT ONCE TO OLDIVE GALLERY. STOP. HOLMES. I had felt no little trepidation at the name – this was where strong men had collapsed in nervous prostration before a certain painting. The thought that my friend had also succumbed had caused me no little anxiety and sent me pell-mell through the early morning London traffic.

It was no small relief to me to see my friend standing quietly with his brother and another man at the far end of the gallery the guide directed me to, unharmed and upright.

I could see as soon as I reached them that the Holmes brothers were not in accord. Though my dear friend was as controlled as ever, there was a subtle tension to his frame, a certain tightness of skin about the eyes that said whatever had gone before my arrival had vexed him immensely. I had not spent enough time with the elder Holmes brother to read his face, but the positively cowed secretary beside him clearly indicated that something had Gone Terribly Awry between the brothers.

"It was not my telegram, Watson," Holmes informed me at once, prompting me to fish the missive in question out and hand it over to him; the silent acknowledgement of his unspoken request so ingrained as to be automatic, "I'm afraid you've been brought here under false pretences, and as such…"

"As such I would prefer to make my own apologies, Sherlock," the elder Holmes positively growled at the younger, "It was I who sent the telegram, Dr Watson. I have need of your assistance."

I listened as Mycroft went on to detail the examinations and conclusions of the experts who had poured over the subject of artistic controversy housed in this gallery while Holmes fidgeted by my side, clearly wishing to impose his own will on the situation. I nodded as the elder Holmes explained that Her Majesty was intending to attend a private viewing of the entire exhibition and the concerns of several of her advisors and members of Parliament that there would be some lasting ill effect on the Queen's health if she were to be exposed to the painting in question. Her Majesty was of course insisting on seeing it, her legendary iron will coming to the fore.

"You wish me to look at the painting?" I glanced at my closest friend as his brother finally came to the point. It was so unusual to see a Holmes' waffling in this manner that it positively unnerved me.

"Precisely," Holmes erupted, "After you indicated to me in no uncertain terms that you had no desire to expose yourself to this exhibition, that your work was immensely pressing and your time limited, my brother has decided in his wisdom to compel you to do so anyway!"

I forbore from mentioning that Mycroft couldn't have known that at all, realising that it was possible that the younger brother had already tried once to turn his elder away from this course of action. On the other hand, I was sure that Holmes would have warned me ahead of time that his brother wished my attendance and the nature of the telegram was such as to arouse my not inconsiderable concern for my friend and bring me instantly to his side. That the elder Holmes had seen fit to manipulate my feelings for his brother in such a way was not something that sat easily with me.

"Surely you will put aside your trivialities for the sake of your Monarch," the secretary spoke up, and was nearly incinerated on the spot with the force of Holmes glare. My own was no less potent – my patients may not be among the highest in the land, but to dismiss their health as trivial was really beyond the pale!

"You have no idea of the importance of the lives of those people you speak of so cavalierly," I said softly, my tone catching the attention of the men around me, "I would advise you to remain silent, sir."

Of course, I couldn't back down now without causing a fuss, so I picked up my medical bag from beside my feet. I gestured with my cane for Mycroft to lead the way and fell into step beside my furious friend, the secretary trailing unhappily behind us. Mycroft walked without hesitation or haste to a large canvas depicting a rocky and arid hillside. He stood to one side and waved an irritable hand at it.

"The painting in question," he grunted. I put my bag at my feet and settled my stick in front of me, leaning my clasped hands upon it for support. I had no idea why the other men had reacted so badly and did not want to make a fool of myself if…

My skin crawled and my heart thudded in my chest. Every muscle tensed as if for a blow. It was all I could do to remain upright and still, so violently were my instincts screaming for me to _duck for the nearest available cover and check for wounded then return fire…_

It was the feeling of Holmes' hand locked around my upper arm in a vicelike grip that shattered the moment completely, drawing me out of the cursed memory of screams and bullets and blood. I can only imagine what I looked like, and my throat ached and burned, as if I had made, or swallowed, a sharp noise.

"Watson!" Holmes' own voice was high with anxiety. His hand left my arm, moving instead to wrap around my shoulders as if to brace me.

"It's alright, Holmes," my own voice was not as steady as I would have liked and I could only imagine what I must have looked like to garner such a reaction. Even Mycroft Holmes seemed taken aback.

"Watson, there is a chair…" Holmes tightened his arm even further and made as if to move me, but I set my stance and shook my head, reaching up to pat his tightly gripping hand. He had drawn me from that moment of instinctive reaction and now I could see clearly why it was that only some men had reacted to the painting and not others.

"The other men who reacted… they were veterans too?" I asked the older Holmes, my tone clearly portraying my disapproval of his tactics. It was as close as I would ever get to informing the man just what I thought of his actions: to be more direct, especially in front of a stranger, would have been a terrible breach of manners.

"Yes, quite," Mycroft replied, working harder than normal to seem unaffected. I nodded and stepped forward out of my friends grip, making sure not to trip over the bag at my feet. I had made a fool of myself enough for one day. I raised my stick and pointed it at the centre of the apparently lifeless painting, tracing the shape that had been subtly blended into the picture.

"The artist was in Afghanistan himself," I said firmly, "See the sniper? Here and… here… in fact there are four in total. Look, you can clearly see the butt of the jezail rifle here… and the barrel here… all of them so expertly worked into the canvas that the uninitiated would think they were simply part of the rock formations. Of course, those of us with experience with the snipers would react to the danger first: calm and slow reasoning is quite impossible when in the grip of a survival instinct."

"That's it?" the palace functionary exclaimed in shock, "There are hidden men in the painting, causing the viewers to be startled?"

"I still carry fragments of both the bullets that I stopped in my last encounter with those snipers," my voice was dry and implacable, daring the soft little man to further call the courage of my fellow veterans into doubt, "Those that have never seen battle or its aftermath can have no idea of what those who served under the Shilling lived through. If that is all, gentlemen…"

I turned, picked up my bag and walked away, in no mood for the usual courtesies of leave taking. Holmes paced beside me, his presence a welcome reminder of my return to England. He faltered only once, something else catching his eye, though he caught me up very quickly, twining his arm through mine and gripping me tightly.

I was grateful beyond words that he decided to plant himself in my waiting room for the mid morning session, and even more grateful that he used the time I was in with patients to organise a locum for the afternoon, ushering me firmly out the door at two to walk in the sunshine and fresh air to our haven at Baker Street.

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AN/ - of course Post Traumatic Stress Disorder in returning Veterans was not recognised in those days – it was not until the Vietnam War that doctors began to truly recognise that their patients were not feigning illness to avoid combat but suffering from a real ailment.

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	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing

Authors Notes: Strong tones of Holmes/Watson friendship/brotherhood.

Warnings – I discuss the vile practice of men preying on young boys for unsavoury purposes in this one – and Holmes comes to the wrong conclusion (I can't say anything else cos it'll ruin the suspense). Just thought that you should know that topic comes up later on; nothing graphic is described though.

**Medals Not Worn In Public**

**Prologue – part three – Holmes**

Watson did not see what it was that arrested my attention we hurriedly exited that gallery, and I never mentioned it to him. It was bad enough that he had suffered such a shock at the callous hands of my older brother without being further mortified by the subject of the small painting set to one side.

In it there was a man, clearly in the midst of fighting for his life. He was in uniform, splattered with blood and dust. He carried one man over his back and was firing off the canvas at an unseen enemy. In the background several other men struggled along behind him to reach the safety of a small rocky escarpment. All of them had been wounded and received rudimentary medical attention – the kind known as 'first aid': enough to stave off encroaching death until true treatment could be administered. All of them were clearly looking to the man in the foreground for that further treatment, as well as the more immediate protection he was offering with his service weapon. His face was set, determined, his stance indomitable. His features were clearly recognisable, the same dear features that I faced every morning over the breakfast table.

I knew that I would never ask him if the picture had been captured from true life. I would never need to. I saw that same expression in the course of our work when things were at their darkest.

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	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing

Authors Notes: Strong tones of Holmes/Watson friendship/brotherhood.

Warnings – I discuss the vile practice of men preying on young boys for unsavoury purposes in this one – and Holmes comes to the wrong conclusion (I can't say anything else cos it'll ruin the suspense). Just thought that you should know that topic comes up later on; nothing graphic is described though.

**Medals Not Worn In Public**

**The Beginning of the Matter – Watson**

I glanced at my watch and allowed myself a small smirk. Holmes was running late for the opera. As it was not a performance I particularly wished to see – I had seen this particular performer some years ago and had gone away with a ringing headache and a dislike for Italian operetta's – I felt more than justified in assuming my _most_ annoying tone and raising my voice to my friend who was apparently turning his room inside out.

"Holmes! We'll be _late!_"

"Damn it all, Watson, I _can_ read the time!" was the heated rejoinder, which had me swallowing my snickers and assuming a look of polite inquiry when the sleuth appeared in his bedroom door. His glare alone told me that he was not entirely taken in.

"I cannot find my other cufflink!" he waved his arm for emphasis and the unlinked cuff flapped open with the movement. He sounded perfectly vexed, as there was only one particular pair that he ever wore to the opera. They were rose gold, plain and solid. The initials upon them weren't his, but his grandfathers, one of the few items he kept of family significance.

"Then you'll need to wear another pair," I suggested, sternly controlling my face. I had in fact received said cufflink from my partner in crime some days ago and hidden it safely away for the evening. I would return it to him upon _our_ return to Baker Street. Tonight it suited me better that my friend be forced to wear something else, "We haven't time to turn the flat upside down to find it now. I'm sure its here somewhere, old chap."

"But they were my grandfathers!" Holmes narrowed his eyes at me. Sensing that he was rapidly deducing the fate of his other cufflink I reached into my waistcoat pocket and pulled out the pair of cufflinks that I had purchased in honour of the evening.

"Wear these instead," I suggested and dropped them casually into his outstretched hand, "Happy birthday, dear friend."

"Watson…" it was rare that I managed to surprise Holmes into complete speechlessness; each occasion was to be savoured when it occurred against all the times that he rendered me in the same condition. Wordlessly he examined the gold and enamel set, then held his cuffs out to me. I changed the cufflink already in place and then set the other into position, tucking the rose gold away safely into a small box on the mantelpiece beside the other that I had hidden.

"Come along Watson! We'll be late!" Holmes had recovered himself at least and was holding my coat by the door. His hand squeezed my shoulder as he helped me slip the heavy wool on, and then I was following him down the stairs to our front door. Mrs Hudson was waiting at the bottom with our hats, which she had collected for brushing and Holmes thanked her with an absent minded word, his mind already on the music we would hear. He flung the front door open with abandon and only narrowly missed a fist to the chest as the messenger outside attempted to knock on the wood that was no longer there.

"Cor! Sorry guv! I din't know yer was going to throw the door open!" the boy exclaimed, "Message fer Dr Watson!"

"I am he," I said from behind my friend, who was beginning to scowl quite fiercely. He had been looking forward to this treat for some time, that it fell on his birthday was immaterial. Or at least it was immaterial to the sleuth: Mrs Hudson and I had conspired to prepare a meal of his favourite foods, have his favourite vintage on hand and my partner in crime had located the cufflinks resting place when she went in after Holmes' washing three days ago. Holmes had likely noticed our efforts on his behalf and was not saying anything, preferring to let sentiment go publicly unacknowledged.

"'Ere you are, sir," the boy handed the missive across, and I fished in my pocket for a coin, handing it over absently as I glanced at the regimental crest on the envelope. There was a small mark on the standard that told me the letter was one of some import, and I opened it at once.

"Oh dear," Mrs Hudson fussed behind me, "It's not bad news I hope, Doctor."

The missive inside was encoded of course, though Holmes would doubtless be able to break it in a moment, and contained instructions for me to present myself for briefing in no less than an hours time. While I had briefly wished for a compelling reason to avoid this particular artiste, I certainly hadn't been in earnest. Holmes' company was pleasant to me, and when he had been transported by music he needed an anchor to the world around him or he'd be run over by the first cabbie that came across him.

"I'm afraid you'll be going alone old chap," I raised remorseful eyes to Holmes, whose scowl promptly worsened; "It seems there is an emergency that I need to see to. I've not even time to change."

"Very well," Holmes sighed grudgingly, "Though it is a pity to waste the ticket. Mrs Hudson! Fetch your cloak! You shall have Watson's ticket instead!"

"Oh sir, but I'm not dressed!" she protested. Holmes would have none of it though and whisked her apron off, her cloak on and our landlady out the door in a matter of moments, brooking no refusal as he swept her into a cab while I stood in the door, laughing.

"I'll see you later, Watson!" he called and then ordered the cabby on. I raised a hand in farewell and turned inside to fetch my kit bag and service revolver with a heavy heart. There was no telling if his farewell would truly occur – it all depended on the task that lay before me. Whatever it was I was pleased that Holmes was out of the danger that surely lay ahead.

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	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing

Authors Notes: Strong tones of Holmes/Watson friendship/brotherhood.

Warnings – I discuss the vile practice of men preying on young boys for unsavoury purposes in this one – and Holmes comes to the wrong conclusion (I can't say anything else cos it'll ruin the suspense). Just thought that you should know that topic comes up later on; nothing graphic is described though.

**Medals Not Worn In Public**

**The Beginning of the Matter – Holmes**

As I settled into the cab I made a mental note to return the favour of stealing Watson's cufflinks at the next available opportunity. The lady beside me was also complicit in his little joke, or else he'd never have pulled it off. Perhaps a bunch of flowers on Mothering Sunday – or a little anonymous gift – would settle my debt to her. The pair of them had always worked together to honour the various holidays and anniversaries that the household shared – Mrs Hudson was a terrible bully-ragger when it came to Watson's birthday and Christmas presents. Watson merely signed the card for the two of us on Mrs Hudson's birthday and informed me what he had purchased so that I would know what the much tried woman was on about when she buttonholed me with her thanks.

My grandfathers' cufflinks were on the mantle – Watson had made no effort to hide that after presenting his gift – and I made a note to return them safely to my room. Watson's gift to me – a rather magnificent gold and enamel pair – would go safely beside grandfathers, reserved for those few Social occasions that I valued.

"We're here, Mr Holmes," Mrs Hudson's voice drew me from my musings, and I started before springing from the cab and tossing the fare up to the cabby. It was a shame that Watson had missed the performance, though Mrs Hudson was an almost acceptable replacement for him insofar as she had sat quietly from curtain rise to curtain fall.

I smiled as I handed my landlady down and tucked her hand into my arm in my very best manner.

"I trust you had a pleasant evening, despite your dress?" I asked and she tsked at me, scolding lightly as I produced my door key. Though she had indeed been under-dressed for the opera, no one had been close enough to truly notice while we were in the box that Watson and I kept season tickets to, and her cloak was new, and quite acceptable in public.

"I'm no fan of all that squalling in Italian, Mr Homes, though it was nice enough I suppose. Give me a ballet any day!" was her verdict, to which I laughed in genuine amusement. In all the years that we two had lodged with Martha Hudson we had formed an odd relationship, moving from tenant and landlady to a strange familial dynamic. I could not say when the process had begun, or precisely how long it had taken, but I was certain it was Watson's fault, bless the man and his excellent ways. Without his influence I have no doubt that Mrs Hudson would have thrown me out many years ago.

"Goodnight, Mrs Hudson," I bowed over her hand once I had taken her cloak and returned her apron, "Your company was … most appreciated."

She gave me a kindly smile, one that said all too clearly that she knew quite well I would have preferred my original escort to still be at my side, then bade me many happy returns before retiring to her rooms. As I climbed the seventeen stairs to the rooms I shared with my dearest friend, I pondered the phenomenon that was friendship. Before moving to Baker Street I had many acquaintances of varying degrees, men that I knew through my profession and studies, men that I would consult with from time to time, or confer favours upon, knowing that I would collect upon that debt in due time.

Watson was the first person, outside my brother, whose habits and moods I became intimately accustomed to. The proximity in which we were forced by virtue of the weather and his initial recovery from war inflicted wounds had made me stop and take notice of another human being for the first time in many years – not a criminal I was tracking, or a client, but an actual person with no agenda or task for me to complete. Had it been anyone other than Watson I believe we would not have lasted six days, let alone the six months of our original lease. There was something about the man that caught my attention and held it long enough for me to befriend him. I had never dared ask what impulse had led him to reciprocate, indeed after all these years I was merely grateful that he had.

The sitting room was warm and well lit – just as we had left it. However I had no desire to sit in my chair and look across at the empty space where my friend should be, so I took myself off to my bed, making a note to retrieve grandfather's cufflinks from the mantle tomorrow.

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	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing

Authors Notes: Strong tones of Holmes/Watson friendship/brotherhood.

Warnings – I discuss the vile practice of men preying on young boys for unsavoury purposes in this one – and Holmes comes to the wrong conclusion (I can't say anything else cos it'll ruin the suspense). Just thought that you should know that topic comes up later on; nothing graphic is described though.

**Medals Not Worn In Public**

**The Letters – Holmes**

There was still no sign of my flatmate as I settled to the breakfast table in the morning – though if he had truly been summoned for an emergency at his old regiment then Watson would not skimp upon that duty. The man took his friendships and duties seriously, a trait that I was the principal beneficiary of. I understood the reason for his absence, but that did not prevent me from a very small and petty resentment of the unnamed writer for depriving me of my Watson's warm presence.

The knocker on the front door sounded, and I looked up from my eggs, focusing my hearing on the street below. There had been the usual bustle and noise of the early morning – I had not discerned the sound of a cab or other wheeled conveyance outside our door. Mrs Hudson answered, spent a brief moment in conversation with the person who had called and then shut the door again. She ascended the stairs alone, the sequence of events allowing me to deduce that a message had been delivered, most likely from Watson to explain his continued absence.

"Good morning, Mrs Hudson," I smiled as she entered the room, two envelopes in her hand. Her face was a study of curiosity and she handed me one envelope, retaining the other herself.

"A messenger came with letters for the both of us, sir," she sat in Watson's empty chair as I glanced at the writing on the envelope. Watson's familiar hand marched in orderly fashion across the surface, ruler straight despite the lack of lines. For a doctor his handwriting was particularly clear, something that his fellows would do well to emulate.

I sat back and examined the envelope carefully, looking for clues as to my friend's situation when he had sent the missive. Usually he would not bother to send separate letters – he often wrote to inform Mrs Hudson that he would be late or absent for one of her fine meals, information that she would pass to me if I was at home. On occasion he would send a note to me that he had been delayed and would return to our rooms very late, or not at all, something I would pass on to Mrs Hudson if I remembered to do so. To send two letters was a break in his pattern that set my mental alarums bleating.

The envelopes were of good quality, stiff and of a type that Watson would not have bothered to purchase. They were not commonly available, which meant that he was visiting someone of wealth with a certain level of prestige. I had noted that the men of Her Majesties military tended to indulge in certain types of stationary when they reached a certain rank – in fact you could tell a soldiers rank by his writing paper and ink. Watson had borrowed from the highly ranked person he had visited, who had then delivered his missive by messenger.

There were none of the marks upon the envelope that would have indicated he was held under duress or in some difficulty. We had devised this personal code out of necessity, and it had defeated all efforts of detection and decoding by outside parties. Mrs Hudson handed her envelope over peaceably for inspection, but it too was _tabula rasa_ – Watson had merely addressed it and sent it on.

I gave Mrs Hudson back her envelope and opened my own, extracting the sheet within and taking a moment to match it to the quality of its envelope. Watson's hand marched clearly along its surface and I sat back to read the short note.

'_Holmes,_

_I have been temporarily recalled to active duty – I cannot tell you more than that. Nor can I predict how long my services will be required. I have made arrangements to keep my rent current with Mrs Hudson._

_All that remains is to wish you well until we meet again._

_Your friend, J.H. Watson.'_

"Well! Of all the impertinence," Mrs Hudson drew my from my thoughts with her indignation, "As if I would prefer to rent the room out in his absence! When he gets back here I'll have some words to say to that young man and no mistake!"

She handed over her letter and got up, bustling about to straighten the rooms, which were perpetually cluttered. I was pleased to see that she did not attempt to alter the condition of Watson's desk at all, something that I could not countenance in his absence. It was well established between us that Watson's things were not to be touched when he was to be away from our rooms for any length of time, though I had no compunctions on the matter if he was merely absent to attend to his locum duties.

'_Dear Mrs Hudson,'_ I read, _'I must offer a thousand apologies for the lack of advance notice, but I have been called away from Baker Street for the foreseeable future. My rent will be paid by cheque and delivered on time until I am able to once more return, however should this arrangement be unsuitable I will understand if you wish to rent the room in my absence. I look forward to seeing you again on my return, yours faithfully, J.H. Watson'_

Again, there was none of the marks or code phrases that would have indicated duress or danger. It appeared that Watson had finally been accepted back into the Military – something that he had longed for in the early days of his convalescence. I had thought that longing well past, but perhaps he had merely been able to conceal it from me – after all Watson was capable of _some_ deceit, despite my jabs about his acting abilities.

"Well it seems that we must wait until his return, my good woman," I stood from the breakfast table, folding the letters back into their respective envelopes and filing them away on my desk, "At which time we will make clear our disapproval of his foolish notions."

As if I would allow Watson to live anywhere other than Baker Street! The inconvenience to our agency would be substantial, not to mention the disastrous impact it would have on my files. I would certainly never allow his room to be rented out to anyone else either – this was his home, and would remain so.

I saw Mrs Hudson out and then subsided into my accustomed chair, smoke curling from my pipe. Watson's empty chair sat opposite me, a terrible reminder of his absence.

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	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing

Authors Notes: Strong tones of Holmes/Watson friendship/brotherhood.

Warnings – I discuss the vile practice of men preying on young boys for unsavoury purposes in this one – and Holmes comes to the wrong conclusion (I can't say anything else cos it'll ruin the suspense). Just thought that you should know that topic comes up later on; nothing graphic is described though.

**Medals Not Worn In Public**

**The Disappearance – Holmes**

Six days after Watson's departure my Lieutenant of the Irregulars, young Wiggins, came to break the sheer tedium of existence in Baker Street. We had been presented with no cases of interest, Scotland Yard seemed to be unusually competent halting in the rash of robberies occurring at various pawn brokers around London, and the agony columns were full of meaningless, irrelevant bleatings.

From time to time, my Irregulars stumbled across unusual problems and puzzles that they brought to me for solving, so Wiggins arrival was not entirely unheard of. As he was alone, and twisting the cloth cap that Watson had given him so many years ago – a cap that I had seen Wiggins risk death beneath the wheels of a cab to retrieve – I was able to deduce that his errand was a serious one. I ushered him to a chair at the table and sat opposite him, my hands folded on the polished wooden surface. Wiggins spent a few moments glaring fiercely at the rare winter sunlight shining from Mrs Hudson's impeccable woodwork and then squared his shoulders as if to brace himself against a blow.

"We've lost Two Eyed Tommy," Wiggins said it steadily, though I could hear the anguish he was trying so manfully to conceal from me, "I'm sorry sir, fer not comin' sooner, bu' yew know that we sometimes lose contact fer a day or so if'n one a th' lads gets hisself a good job. When we realised 'e was not ter be foun' we made our own inquiries like, same as yer woul'. Bu' there's bin no trace, an' its goin on fer a week."

Two Eyed Tommy was one of my most unusual Irregulars. He had been found not long after the Jefferson Hope case, wandering near the St Pancreas's Station, dressed in clean if not new clothes, reasonably well fed and carrying the colour of a child that had grown up in the country. He had been found wandering by Wiggins and his little brother Billy, and had unfortunately caught the eye of one of the 'creeps' – as the boys in my employ called those odious men who preyed upon small children. Billy and Wiggins had latched on to his hands and led him off as if they owned him, heading for the beat constable. However, young Tommy was spirited if nothing else, and once he'd realised their destination he had twisted free and run, with Wiggins and Billy on his heels. They finally cornered the boy who informed them that his father had said very clearly that he was not to go to the police. At a loss, Wiggins had brought him to me. Tommy had refused to give any name other than his first, and had been adamant that he would not go to the police. Watson had examined him briefly then sent him down to Mrs Hudson with the other two for a meal, the better to speak to me in private.

I had thought that I was well conversant with the petty foibles and pathetic superstitions of mankind, however I was most astonished to learn from my dear friend that Tommy would probably never tell us his full name or address, not because he was loyal to the parent that had undoubtedly abandoned him at the station, but because he didn't know. It was apparent to Watson's medical instincts that the boy had been raised in a sheltered way, because of his unusual appearance. While I had to admit that the red hair was particularly striking, it was Tommy's eyes that especially caught the attention. One was as green as the freshest of grass, the other a startling rich brown. Watson informed me, anger in every tone and gesture, that children changed eye colour in infancy, from blue to their true colour. Tommy's parents may well have concealed him under the belief that he was somehow touched by other worldly beings and that his appearance may yet change to normal if they raised him properly. There were marks of beatings on the boy, though none fresh, to both of our relief.

In light of this information, it seemed the logical course of action was for Tommy to remain with us in Baker Street; he stayed in the kitchen with Mrs Hudson, to begin with. He would go around with Wiggins and Billy at the least opportunity, and eventually left our premises to live with the boys full time. The boys had accepted him as one of their own, for Tommy was a personable young lad. Watson kept a watch over him, as he did all my Irregulars, teaching all of the boys to read and write and figure. Mrs Hudson fed them when she could, and clothed them too, though Watson was her chief assistant in that endeavour. I taught them to be enterprising, enquiring and diligent – those that excelled were led into trades and skills that would allow them to survive beyond my employ.

Wiggins' unhappy sigh recalled my shocked thoughts, and I leaned over to pat the hands of my small Lieutenant, thinking that the boy was rapidly growing too old to live hand to mouth on the streets: we would need to find a trade to settle him into soon.

"I would have preferred to know earlier," I told him firmly, well aware that Watson would have my hide if I made the boy cry with my misplaced anger, "However there is no point in crying over spilt milk. What have you discovered about Tommy's last movements?"

"He had a job ter do th' day before yer birfday," Wiggins replied with a sigh. I was astonished that my 'troops' knew of the day, but gestured for him to get on with his tale.

"As near as we can figger, 'e was deliverin' stationery fer the business on Regent Stree', yer know, th' one that yer use. An th' job were a good one, cos no one was faster than Tommy at getting' abou', so 'e was due a good fee. 'E were supposed ta meet us all th' nigh' o' yer birfday cos Doc Watson 'ad given me some money fer a good meal – like it was yer birfday presen' ter us. Bu' Tommy ne'er showed, tho we kept 'is share o' the coin back so 'e could ge' somfing la'er… bu' e' ne'er showed, not even th' nex' mornin'," Wiggins bit his lip anxiously. I put aside the information that Watson was in the habit of treating the boys to a good meal in my honour, and nodded for my Lieutenant to continue.

"We check'd all the yous-you-al places, an' asked here wiv Mrs 'Udson, cos the Doc weren't 'ere… bu' she aint seen 'im either. We even asked th' local copper, but he aint seen Tommy at all, an' its not like 'e don't stand out in a crowd, wot wiv those eyes an that 'air. Then Petey from the Paddington boys' tol' me there's a new creep in th' area, an' he prowls aroun' Regent Street an' all…" Wiggins' voice cracked. There were few things that could break the stoic self control my troops practiced, especially in my presence. Watson saw the more childish side of them in his role of doctor and teacher; it was to his lot that fell the occasional exuberant hug. I had even heard some of the lads call him 'Fath' in passing – an honorific that spoke eloquently of his place in their hearts. Tommy and two of the very youngest had been known to bestow the odd kiss to the cheek, and even Wiggins, my oldest boy, had cuddled under Watson's strong right arm from time to time.

I reached across the table again and put my hand over his, stilling his nervously wringing fingers and squeezing lightly.

"I take it you can identify this man by sight?" I asked, and Wiggins nodded fervently. I patted his fingers and leapt to my feet, heading for my room to change into attire more appropriate to a lounger. As I rummaged through my disguises I had to quell my fears firmly. I had never lost a boy yet, especially to a predator such as Wiggins described. I was not about to start with Tommy, whom I had watched grow from a young age.

I certainly would not be able to face my Watson with such ghastly news upon his return.

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	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing

Authors Notes: Strong tones of Holmes/Watson friendship/brotherhood.

Warnings – I discuss the vile practice of men preying on young boys for unsavoury purposes in this one – and Holmes comes to the wrong conclusion (I can't say anything else cos it'll ruin the suspense). Just thought that you should know that topic comes up later on; nothing graphic is described though.

**Medals Not Worn In Public**

**The Disappearance – Lestrade**

Even the greenest Constable in the Yard can tell you that there are two things in the world that truly upset Mr Sherlock Holmes – three if you count losing a case. Number one is any form of violence committed against the person of Dr Watson: verbal or physical, it gets his not inconsiderable temper up and rampaging every time. The second thing that stirs him to homicidal rage is injury or mistreatment of his little army of street urchins. Most people would think that the boys were merely a tool of his trade, disposable tools at that. They would be wrong.

He treated both the children and Dr Watson with the most cavalier of manners. He would use and abuse them in such a way as to make a stranger believe that he didn't care for them at all. Heaven forbid that said stranger emulate the man though. Lestrade had seen the consultant completely decimate beyond all hope of recovery gentlemen of all walks of life in the defence of his boys and friend.

So it was with this in mind that Lestrade was able to not only weather but understand the attitude of Mr Holmes when he stormed the Yard, demanding official assistance to close down a child slavery ring. The ring was operating close to Baker Street – a shocking thing in a respectable area – and if Lestrade read the signs right, one of the boys Mr Holmes was fond of employing had fallen prey to it.

It certainly did not help matters that Dr Watson was not around. The Yard had been aware of his absence for the last week or so, as one of the Constables had called around to the good doctor's usual surgery, only to be met by a new locum. Inquiry with Mrs Hudson revealed two things – one being the doctor's absence for an undetermined period of time, the other being the trouble – of an undefined nature – awaiting the good Doctor when his landlady got hold of him. Dr Watson was the only calming influence that Mr Holmes listened to when he was in a state like this; in fact the poor man often became a barrier between Mr Holmes and the Yard in the name of keeping their working relationship intact. Without that barrier present Lestrade made a mental note to grit his teeth and ride it out.

Constable Whitehorse wore the length of Mr Holmes tongue when the hapless man inadvertently got in his way. The rhetoric that flew was worse than Billingsgate after hours; even Lestrade learnt a few new words in _that_ outburst. As entertaining and educating as all this was, Lestrade felt that the Yard had enough on its plate to deal with and intervened in the lecture, dragging the consultant by the elbow into his office and shutting the door firmly behind him, stuffing the thin genius into his spare chair and taking his own seat with resolve.

Mr Holmes was so astonished that Lestrade had laid hands on him that he'd fallen silent. Lestrade was relieved that the man took a moment to gather himself, smoothing that façade of civilised gentleman's manners once more. The amateur could be a pill to work with, but he was usually better mannered than _that_. Dr Watson's absence was taking its toll, obviously.

"Now, sir," Lestrade said smartly just as it looked like Mr Holmes was about to speak, "If you give me the details of the matter I will be able to help you better. Leave nothing out."

This put Mr Holmes on the wrong foot for two reasons – number one, Lestrade had quoted the stories from the Strand at him, thus evoking the spirit of Dr Watson and number two, by interrupting him he'd stolen some of the other mans momentum. The gentleman opposite knew this and scowled heavily, however his tone was much more civil when he did begin to speak.

It took all of Lestrade's control not to grimace as he took notes. Child exploitation was one of the things that he particularly hated. There were so many vulnerable little souls in the city that the charities and orphanages couldn't keep up. Some of the orphanages were worse than living on the streets – Lestrade had no illusions there – but selling children for cheap labour and pleasure was guaranteed to get his not inconsiderable temper up every time.

As usual, Mr Holmes had done a sterling job of collecting the evidence, most of which was still back in Baker Street. Lestrade would take the mans word on things for now, though he'd be around to Mrs Hudson directly to collect the relevant articles of physical evidence before Mr Holmes squirreled them away in his museum. All that remained now was for Lestrade to confirm the other mans findings – something that would rile Holmes to no end – and then apply for the relevant warrant.

As much as the Yard respected Mr Holmes, the due process of law had to be followed; else they would be no better than the criminals they pursued. Although Lestrade knew that Mr Holmes understood this on an intellectual level, when the man was in the midst of a case due process could go hang for all he cared. It fell to the Yard's lot to pick up the pieces and glue them together into a mosaic that the judge and jury would understand. Usually they had Dr Watson's overt assistance in this, but with the man disappeared to heavens knew where they would all have to make the best of a bad lot.

The disappearance of both the Irregular and Dr Watson was a double blow – Lestrade just hoped that by the time Dr Watson returned from wherever he'd hied himself away to they would have better news than they did at present.

0o0o0o0


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing

Authors Notes: Strong tones of Holmes/Watson friendship/brotherhood.

Warnings – I discuss the vile practice of men preying on young boys for unsavoury purposes in this one – and Holmes comes to the wrong conclusion (I can't say anything else cos it'll ruin the suspense). Just thought that you should know that topic comes up later on; nothing graphic is described though.

**Medals Not Worn In Public**

**The Middle of the Matter – Mrs Hudson**

It was no small exaggeration that over the years Martha Hudson had come to rely upon certain things. Mr Holmes' eccentric yet well meaning efforts to appreciate her housekeeping were one; the breath of sanity that was Dr Watson was another. It could not be denied that Mr Holmes would not have survived the original six months lease had Dr Watson not been so adept at understanding and repairing the damage Mr Holmes' behaviour had caused – both to the house and to his relationship with his landlady.

Years had passed and she had come to enjoy the eccentricities that were visited upon the house. They kept her young as she attempted to deal with the unexpected and outré events under her roof. It rapidly became a commonplace thing to find unconscious roughs deposited on the front steps for collection by the police like yesterdays rubbish, her most troublesome tenant draped listlessly over furniture looking very much like a doll that had been flung aside by a careless child, or odd and grisly relics turning up in the butter dish or other less welcome places. Chemical stenches – and explosions – fires and a violin tortured to death were taken in stride, as was being knocked up at all hours of the day and night.

Dr Watson was no saint either. The man had been terribly ill when he first arrived and had enough pride to fill St Paul's. He'd had no appetite, been subject to odd starts and fits of nerves – which Mr Holmes had not helped with – and once the man was well half the people knocking her out of bed in the night were seeking the doctors aid. He neglected himself shockingly, one only had to hint that one needed help or felt ill to have the man at one's instant beck and call, and half the people he treated had not the means to pay him which meant that his purse was always very thin indeed.

She and Mr Holmes had come to something of an understanding over the years – one that the good doctor had never been made aware of. When he was too ill, too tired or too stubborn to give in and take care of himself then Mr Holmes and Martha Hudson were there to see that the situation was remedied at once. She and her most enervating tenant were of one accord when it came to Dr John Watson – the man was a treasure to be taken care of or they'd know the reason why! The fact that the dear doctor had no idea of his true worth and was always slightly surprised by but ever grateful for their efforts was just another of his endearing characteristics.

Of course Dr Watson was her primary ally in keeping Mr Holmes well. The poor man bore the brunt of his flatmates strange moods, odd habits and doldrums. Whenever she could not get through to Mr Holmes, Dr Watson could and between the two of them they managed the eccentric genius beautifully. For all his logic and astonishing observations that man had never seen the conspiracy right under his nose: or if he had he'd not got the full measure of it.

There were days when she felt as if she was a mother once more, tending to two incredibly intelligent, headstrong boys with a penchant for danger. If they hadn't been so devoted to the cause of justice – and there was little enough of that in this world – she would have taken a broom handle to them long ago. She needed every ounce of her motherly understanding now.

The disappearance of Two Eyed Tommy – that poor waif who had been so callously abandoned by folk who should have loved and cherished him for the bright gift that he was – had been a terrible blow to Mr Holmes. Although he and the men of Scotland Yard had worked like demons for two whole months, he had been unable to retrieve their poor child from the foul circumstances that had befallen him. It fair broke her heart that one of the street urchins that Mr Holmes and the Doctor had all but adopted had been lost to such monsters as was reported in the papers. She had objected to the children at first, until she'd caught Dr Watson consoling a sobbing boy, listening to the tale of woe that had laid the child so low – a rival gang had beaten him and taken his meagre earnings for the week, leaving him penniless and contused. Dr Watson had bound the cuts and given the child the contents of his own pocket to replace the money taken, though the dear man had been in need of the funds himself.

After that she had started to see them, not as noisy dirty nuisances, but as they were – lost children struggling to support themselves and their comrades as best they could. She had begun befriending them through her skills as a baker, eventually moving on to clothing them and insisting that they wash on a regular basis. In return she had never been at a loss for a messenger or assistant to carry parcels when she went shopping, and more than once the children had prevented her own pocket book from being lifted by others of their class. The inclusion of the Irregulars in their odd family had enriched her days in ways she had never sought and though she missed her dearly departed husband and her estranged son her life was full with other things.

Tommy's loss was a horror. Mr Holmes was beside himself, inconsolable with grief and she began to fear for his health as he entered one of those black fits that Dr Watson was so good at extracting him from. She herself shed no few tears for the lost boy, insisting that the Irregulars call upon her every day that she might reassure herself that they were still alive and unharmed.

The sitting room upstairs became a mausoleum. They had been unable to trace every child that had passed through the foul syndicates hands, the thought of those innocents still in peril making Mr Holmes sick to his very soul. The curtains remained closed, the fire unlit and the violin wailed its agony to the heavens at all hours of the day and night. The only time there was silence was when he had fallen unconscious, his nerves so strained that his mind was forced to the relief that was the best healer.

If only Dr Watson were here! The thought was her constant companion. She longed for the comfort of his presence, even as she berated him for his callous absence. It was Dr Watson that had the most success in comforting and healing Mr Holmes hurts, as well as her own. They had come to rely on him to be there when he was needed, now that he was not nothing seemed to work as it should. In her more rational moments she knew that the dear man had no way of knowing how desperately they needed him, but that thought became more and more difficult to believe as two whole weeks passed in this agony of emotion.

The final straw came when she was unable to wake Mr Holmes from where he lay on the carpet, looking for all the world as if someone had finally severed the strings that bound his soul to his body. In a panic she had sent for a doctor and Inspector Lestrade, not knowing who else to turn to. Mr Holmes had once told her that in the direst of emergencies, only when all seemed truly lost, that she should send word to a gentleman's club – she had never heard anything of it before, but things were rapidly approaching the point when she knew that something would have to be done. She could take no more and so it was that she dispatched the good Inspector to the club on her behalf, tearfully bidding him to hurry while the doctor she had summoned struggled to do all he could for her poor Mr Holmes.

0o0o0o0


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing

Authors Notes: Strong tones of Holmes/Watson friendship/brotherhood.

Warnings – I discuss the vile practice of men preying on young boys for unsavoury purposes in this one – and Holmes comes to the wrong conclusion (I can't say anything else cos it'll ruin the suspense). Just thought that you should know that topic comes up later on; nothing graphic is described though.

**Medals Not Worn In Public**

**The Middle of the Matter – Lestrade**

To say that Mr Holmes appeared dead was no exaggeration. Only the fact that the doctor crouched over him was attempting to get the man up off the floor and into a bed convinced Lestrade that he was still among the living – though not for long if the state he'd gotten himself into was any indication.

Mrs Hudson had been beside herself. She'd lost weight herself and was looking decidedly peaky. This business with the lost boy had affected her badly, as had Mr Holmes' selfish sulk. She'd spoken in a very disjointed way of what sounded like two weeks of hell – why the poor woman hadn't just thrown the man out onto the street was beyond comprehension. She was clearly in no fit state to contact this club she mentioned – it wouldn't have been proper for her to do so in any case – and so Lestrade took himself off to Pall Mall, uncomfortably aware that he had no idea who he was going to contact or what he would say once he had arrived.

The doorman had looked him over with undisguised disdain and it had been all he could do to keep a civil tongue in his head. Lestrade hated dealing with people who had delusions of stature; it made things so much more difficult than they needed to be. For all that he was a gentleman; Dr Watson was at least easy to get along with. No airs or graces about him, just a quiet gentility of manner that was extended to all he met, regardless of their station in life. It was one of the things that had eased his way into being accepted among the men of Scotland Yard.

Lestrade sighed as he was led to a room upstairs with a large bow window and books that were worth more than his annual salary. He was instructed in a cold tone to wait there, and then abandoned to the books and leather seats. Suppressing the urge to fidget nervously or stick his hands in his pocket, Lestrade moved to glance over the titles on the shelves, feigning an interest in French poetry until the door opened and one of the widest men he'd ever met entered the room.

He was balding, well dressed, extremely corpulent, with the most arresting grey eyes that Lestrade had ever seen. In fact he'd only ever met one other person with eyes quite that colour and wondered what precisely the relationship between Mr Holmes and this gentleman was. The man certainly had the same abrupt manner of speaking as Mr Holmes, not to mention the uncomfortable way of looking a chap over as if he was a specimen in a zoo, making a conclusion based upon that assessment and filing it away for later.

"You are here on behalf of Sherlock Holmes? I take it you have news of him for me?" the man didn't bother to introduce himself, which made Lestrade tighten his lips for a moment. Two could play at that game, he decided.

"Mr Holmes has fallen extremely ill. He left instructions that a message to that effect was to be sent to this club with his landlady should such a thing ever occur," Lestrade said it simply, without inflection. The cool tone surprised the corpulent man before him, who had obviously been expecting a certain amount of deference.

"Where is Dr Watson?" the other asked and it was all Lestrade could do not to shrug. That was the thousand pounds question that most of London was asking. Things would never have got this bad if Watson had been around taking care of matters. In fact Lestrade was sure that they'd have recovered the lost boy if Watson had been there – Mr Holmes seemed to work better when the good doctor was around, though no one ever dared to say as much out loud lest that opinion get back to the consulting detective.

"He is not in town. We have no idea where he is. I do know that Mr Holmes situation is not directly the result of Dr Watson's absence. He failed in a case that was particularly important to him personally," it pained him to say it, but Lestrade was not in the habit of lying when delivering bad news. Best to have it all out at once was his motto.

"Very well, you may go," the corpulent man nodded and Lestrade restrained the impulse to tug his forelock and mutter 'yes milord', such was the other mans tone. He nodded instead and walked quietly past the other man, who had appeared to have forgotten his existence already. That was just fine with Lestrade.

As he walked out of the preternaturally silent club he thanked his lucky stars that he hadn't been born a gentleman.

0o0o0o0


	11. Chapter 11

Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing

Authors Notes: Strong tones of Holmes/Watson friendship/brotherhood.

Warnings – I discuss the vile practice of men preying on young boys for unsavoury purposes in this one – and Holmes comes to the wrong conclusion (I can't say anything else cos it'll ruin the suspense). Just thought that you should know that topic comes up later on; nothing graphic is described though.

**Medals Not Worn In Public**

**The Middle of the Matter – Holmes**

I was not entirely sure when my elder brother had moved into the flat at Baker Street – but I was certain I didn't like it. Where I was well accustomed to wheedling Mrs Hudson – or just outright ignoring her – into leaving me alone, my elder brother was not at all moved by my antics. I was certainly not in the slightest impressed that my brother was attempting to enforce meal and bed times upon me.

In a way, the irritation served to needle me out of the black fit faster than even my poor Watson could manage. Always with my resident doctor there was a line that he didn't cross – mainly because doing so would involve loosing his usually iron control of that fiery temper of his. Watson in any sort of rage was something to be avoided; our enemies had discovered that to their cost, as had I. Watson had actually knocked me unconscious on one never to be forgotten occasion – this was in the early days of our friendship – and I had awoken to a cold compress and a flatmate that was nearly prostrate with shame. Since then I had taken especial care not to anger him to that point ever again.

Thus it was that I found myself wandering the sitting room some three weeks after the loss of my poor boy, attempting to peer at Mycroft's files. Mycroft was apparently working from the flat, needling me in between reports. What his superiors thought of this was difficult to say, though he was in such a unique position at Whitehall that he could demand to conduct business in a pink bonnet and no one would dare gain-say him.

"What are you smirking at, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked impatiently and I gave him a considering glance. The times that he was unable to follow my train of thought were rare indeed, not to be squandered in petty squabbles. I resolved to keep this rather grotesque image to myself for now and waved his comment aside languidly. The flat was a nightmare of papers and tobacco ash, the air smelt rather musty and I hadn't shaved in what appeared to be a fortnight as my beard was almost finished growing in. Something would have to be done about all three things before my Watson came home: I started with myself first.

Mrs Hudson, who appeared to have been ill if the weight loss and strained countenance was anything to go by, came up with the luncheon and then stayed to join us at Mycroft's startling suggestion. I ate most of my meal to please her – in her current state she didn't need to be tried any further – then carried the tray of dirty dishes down for her myself. She put me quite out of countenance when she wept on my shoulder for a moment before sending me upstairs with strict instructions to open the windows 'before you die of smoke poisoning'. Deciding that discretion was the better part of valour I did as I was bid upon returning to the sitting room and flung the windows wide, much to Mycroft's disgust. He hated 'fresh air', not that the air in London could strictly be termed fresh, more than he hated exercise.

"Sherlock, do sit down," my elder brother sighed after I had gathered an enormous pile of papers and was wondering where to put them, "I have something for you to do."

That did not bode well. Usually he asked for my assistance in a matter: when he flatly informed me that I would be taking up whatever it was that he wished me to do signalled difficult times ahead. I dropped the papers back to the floor carelessly and threw myself into Watson's chair, curling into it and wishing for his presence. Mycroft would not be here if Watson had been – my brother did not like to be in company.

"What is it?" I asked, wondering as I did if the task he was about to outline would be sufficient to occupy my mind whilst my friend was away. How dearly I wished I could summon him home! We were all of us in need of that special brand of calm comfort that only Watson could supply. When my doctor was caring for me I had no need to stand on my pride or dignity because he extended that to me through his own gentle and noble manner, though I made a show of doing so; it wouldn't do to give up the candle too easily. He had seen me through fits blacker than the most moonless night. With him at my side the fits never had a chance to progress as this last one obviously had. Watson had seen me at both my best and my worst – there was no one I trusted more in this world, not even my own blood.

"Sherlock! Are you listening?" Mycroft's irritable tone broke through my musings, "This is vitally important, brother!"

"Very well," I sighed and sat up to give him my full but grudging attention.

It seemed that there was a syndicate of criminals working at various locations in Her Majesties colonies and protectorates, organised over quite a large distance, operating a ring of smugglers and spies. They stole anything from gems to state secrets with impunity and were in a position to have a very real impact on the future of not only the Empire but the rest of the world as well. If something wasn't done soon war would break out across Europe – all of the collective Royal houses would enter into a struggle for supremacy that could well set civilisation at nought.

Although Mycroft had been hearing whispers of this for some time he had been unable to discern where the heart of the syndicate lay. Despite the fact that he had foiled several of their smaller operations the syndicate was somewhat like the mythical Hydra – you had to take out the central figure to ensure that the beast truly died. Various persons had been employed to infiltrate the syndicate with limited success – those men simply never rose to a position high enough to get to the central figure, though they would be able to mop up quite a few of the lower level orders when the time came. At last word had been sent directly to Mycroft through one of his operatives that there was a man in place to strike at the very heart of the syndicate. He was in the Military and had become involved at Her Majesties direct command; which she had apparently not informed Mycroft of prior to deploying Her own agent.

"It's this man that needs you now, and before you ask I have no idea who he is, my operative wouldn't say," Mycroft was exceedingly vexed by that, something that I noticed with all of the glee of a petty little brother. He gave me a glare designed to be quelling, but only Watson could master me in that manner any more.

"You've been asked for by name at the highest level," Mycroft continued, "To arrive on a specific date and time."

"What does this Military man want with me?" I asked, frowning. I had no reputation among the Military, though I had gained some small notoriety as a public figure, due partly to Watson's scribbles in the Strand. If this was a case of misplaced publicity my Boswell and I would be having words when he finally deigned to return from wherever he currently called home.

"He requires someone to assist with the final deductions," Mycroft's tone made it more than clear what he thought of men who were unable to deduce without assistance, "In addition he wants someone wholly unconnected to the military to assist in several civilian matters. I believe he also wishes you to act as a secure courier between himself and Her Majesty. I was personally told by Her Majesty that this would all become clear to you once you met Her Major – the man was only ever referred to as the Queens Major in my presence – and that he had Her full authority and confidence. He had apparently dealt with several other smaller matters for Her in the past, but this was the largest request She has ever made of Her Major and according to Her remarks made in my presence, She was well pleased by his efforts thus far."

I was beginning to be intrigued despite myself. Whoever this was, he must have had something to him to impress Her Majesty with his service. It was entirely possible that the deductions required would turn out to be mundane in the extreme, but as I had nothing else on hand and every street corner currently served to remind me of my lost boy it seemed that getting out of London was an attractive proposition.

So I agreed to accept the commission and shortly found myself on the boat train, bound for India, in the company of the very operative that had been sent back to Mycroft by Her Majesties Major.

0o0o0o0


	12. Chapter 12

Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing

Authors Notes: Strong tones of Holmes/Watson friendship/brotherhood.

Warnings – I discuss the vile practice of men preying on young boys for unsavoury purposes in this one – and Holmes comes to the wrong conclusion (I can't say anything else cos it'll ruin the suspense). Just thought that you should know that topic comes up later on; nothing graphic is described though.

**Medals Not Worn In Public**

**The Beginning of the End – Holmes**

Mycroft's agent was not as discrete as my brother would have liked. I spotted several flaws in his disguise which, while not immediately apparent to the average man on the street, would one day land him in significant if not deadly trouble. As I had no wish to compromise myself by attempting to point that out in transit I resolved to have words with the man at my convenience once we had arrived and were in a secure location. It rather broke the tedium of the journey to slip away from his notice – Mycroft had probably instructed him to keep watch over me on the journey as I had yet to fully recover the harm I had done myself in the last black fit – and then watch his panicked attempts to locate me once more.

And so in this fashion we came to Bombay. The journey, though terribly tedious, had allowed me to recoup my lost strength and I was ready to commence work on the case. Mycroft's agent had informed us that the Queen's Major would send someone to meet us at the station with information about a later rendezvous and the agent – whose parents had given him the unlikely name of Parker Parkerson – was a little more obvious than I would have liked in scanning the bustling throngs on the docks around us as we collected our small amount of luggage and headed for the street where we would find cabs.

By pre-arrangement, Parkerson shared the cab I summoned with me and gave the address for our lodgings in a quiet voice to the cabbie – a dark faced man swathed in vibrant colours piloting a hack and open air conveyance – before settling back with a worried sigh. The cab paused to let another pass, there was a jounce of springs and then a small body was wriggling in between us, piping up in a voice that hailed from the East of London.

"Hullo Uncle!"

Red hair and mismatched eyes fairly shouted to me and before I knew quite what I was about I had the boy in my arms, checking him for hurt and muttering a hundred and one imprecations in his ear. Two Eyed Tommy was shocked into stillness, though his hands came up to knot in the light coat I wore, his lips trembling and turning down as he realised that he had been given up for dead – or worse – only scant months ago.

"Oi'm sorry Uncle!" the child wailed at last and buried his head in my chest. The action brought me to my senses and I wrapped an arm around him grimly and calmed myself through force of will. It would not do to frighten the child into forgetting his message. However he had come to be here – and I prayed to a God that I seldom acknowledged that it hadn't been in the hands of those slave traders after all – he was haler and heartier than he'd been in London. Whoever currently had the care of him was more than adequate for the task. Not that I would neglect to mention in the strongest terms that my Irregular was not someone to be 'borrowed' like a library book without so much as a by-your-leave.

"Very well, Tommy, we'll deal with this later," I patted the boys back and he sat up, sniffling a little. He fished out his own handkerchief though, a slightly grubby cotton square he carried in his sleeve and mopped his face and nose defiantly. This was unheard of, as my Irregulars didn't have the money or other resources required to affect the manners of a gentleman, but Tommy did it naturally enough, which meant that he'd at least been taken in hand during his sojourn in foreign climes. He'd gained some needed weight and lost that unhealthy pallor that marred the complexion of any child living in London.

The cab drew up to our lodgings and I let Parkerson pay the driver while Tommy hopped out and took charge of the baggage. No sooner had the cab driven off than another pulled up and the driver descended with a grin.

"Take bags young sahib?" he asked in broken and heavily accented English. Tommy nodded at once and gestured for us to climb in again.

"It's not safe to stay here – Mr Parkerson's been rumbled and there will be a watch on the place by this afternoon. We managed to trick 'em inter thinkin' yer would be arrivin' later," Tommy muttered, "This is Ashim – he's trustworthy."

"Very," Ashim said firmly, "Master Sahib Major is very good to my family. I owe him a life."

The odd driver in his drab clothes and crooked back leapt up to the driver's seat and sent us whirling away without further direction. Parkerson was glaring at the boy now perched between us on the wider seat. Tommy met his eyes without wincing, finally huffing impatiently and folding his arms in a stern gesture that reminded me very strongly of…

"Well yer 'ave been. 'Ow do yer think me father rumbled yer in the first place? Yer not very good wiv disguise – yer keep breaking character. My uncle here could give yer some pointers fer sure."

"The boy is right," I spoke up, "You've been significantly less than discrete on several occasions in the course of our journey. The fact that the child knows your true name – I assume you haven't been using it here – speaks to the completeness of your discovery."

"Where are we going?" Parkerson gave up the argument, though I knew from his posture he had not accepted our comments as yet. This man could prove to be a liability if we weren't very watchful. Tommy was also shooting him distrustful looks: something that I knew meant the boy would be on the man's heels whilst we were forced to work with him. It was a double comfort; my Irregular was once more within my protection – I would not leave India without him – and I had an ally that had proven to be quite resourceful in the past.

Our new lodgings were accessed from a busy road, bustling with so many people, animals and traffic that two Englishmen and a child were barely noticed. Tommy greeted several people with a smile and wave as he passed, speaking to them in broken phrases of their native tongue. He was much liked in the area if his reception was anything to go by, and he had made several friends of his own age as well. It seemed that even in Bombay there were street urchins working in small gangs to keep body and soul together.

The dwelling we were shown to was humble – containing sparse rough furniture and undecorated – but it was clean and tidy none the less. There was a bed, a table, a chair and a cupboard and that was all: it would not take a man very long to search it, nor was there any place to hide.

"I've got letters for yer about the case and I'll take yer to yer meeting later tonight," Tommy announced, drawing himself up as if he was reporting on the carpet in the sitting room of Baker Street. I nodded and sat on the bed under the window, positioning myself so that I could see into the busy street and yet not be seen.

"How came you to be here, my boy?" it was a question of the first moment, international intrigue aside. I had the most urgent need to know instantly that my Irregular had not been harmed or subjected to the unspeakable torments of the child slave trade. The thought that the boy may have been brutalised or violated in any way was making my stomach churn with anxiety. Those that had harmed him would not live long, that much I vowed. Parkerson's impatient interjection was ignored by us both as a matter of course as Tommy came to sit on the other end of the bed – leaving Parkerson the room's only chair.

"It was yer birfday, guv," for the moment there were just the two of us in that humble room, as my Irregular went back to the last days he'd spent in England, "An' I 'ad a present for yer. The writin' paper yer liked so much, I 'ad a little packet of it, an I wanted ter give it ter yer. So I wen' ter Baker Street an saw yer gettin' in a cab wiv Mother Hudson. Yer was leavin' Dr Watson behin' an' he were laughing, but he went back inside an' then a moment later he came out of Baker Street too. Only he weren't laughin' no more – he looked sad and worried and grim. He 'ad his kit wiv him – the one he carried in the army when he got hurt and he looked up at yer windows with a sad sigh before getting' in his own cab. I know it was 'is army kit, cos 'e showed all us boys it once – Wiggins asked ter see it."

"So you followed the doctor," I realised, seeing it in my mind as if recalling a memory. Tommy was fiercely loyal to Watson – he treated the man like a father at times. Should he see Watson in a state of distress – which had only happened once before – the boy would move heaven and earth to set things right.

"He went to a building in Whitehall and there were soldiers there. They talked inside for a long time. I nearly missed 'im coming out – he was in uniform yer see, an' he looked so unlike hisself that I coudn' believe it were 'im. He got on a train and by the time anyone noticed me we were in a whole 'nother country," Tommy shivered at the memory, making the hairs on the back of my neck sit up, "The two blokes what caught me were going to turn me in to the peelers, an' I kicked up a true ruckus. When th' Doc heard me he came runnin' and well he had ter back me up or I'd blow his cover. I'd been yelling fer me father, you see, an'…"

Tears sparked in the boys eyes and he sat up, blinking fiercely. A great weight lifted suddenly from my heart as I realised precisely who we'd be meeting later tonight and more importantly, who had been taking such good care of my Irregular. Tommy would have been subjected to the most stern and gentle care of his young life under Watson's excellent protection.

"He said I was 'is son," the young voice wavered and then strengthened with the force of the child's emotions, "He claimed me righ' there an' then, and I been his son all the time we been away and he don't mind at all! He couldn' send word wivout blowing his cover tho, cos they all know here that he don't have any kith or kin in England, and to send a message back that I was wiv him mighta got people curious. Yew understand, don't yew Uncle? He couldn' risk it, not even fer yew!"

"I understand, Tommy," I nodded, "Its just that we were so very worried about you. Mrs Hudson was particularly frantic."

"When I come home I'll make it up ter her!" Tommy vowed, "Father an I will make her see we 'ad no choice about it."

"And whose idea was it to call me uncle?" I asked, putting that aside for now. Tommy grinned and pointed to himself with his thumb.

"Yew an' Father are closer than any brothers I can name," he said firmly, "So uncle it is. Now, I got letters fer yew and a stack of papers and maps. Father says I'm to wait here wiv yew until its time to go an' I got me own work ter do as well."

I hid a smile as the boy leapt from the bed and pried up a well concealed hiding place in the floor, fishing out several dispatch tins and pushing them over to me. Between us we piled them on the bed and Tommy handed over a thick envelope bearing my name. Any doubts that I'd had disappeared at the sight of Watson's familiar script adorning the envelope. He'd been using a pencil, writing on a less than ideal surface and had been treating a patient prior to scribing this for me, but he'd been under no undue strain at the time of writing and I was pleased beyond all measure that I would shortly be taking up a case with him once more. How he was connected to the Queen's Major was as yet undetermined. It didn't matter. There were times when I felt that we two were invincible; no third or fourth party need apply.

The letter was one devoted entirely to business, though his warm regard was apparent in his words. He laid before me the matters that he had been able to verify, outlined the areas where he was still unsure of his way and explained that he had left for me the local papers, with the agony columns annotated as was his habit to allow me to glean further information on the matter at hand. He would explain precisely the tasks that required my assistance in person, apologised for depriving me of my Irregular – though that label was no longer accurate as the boy now saw Watson as his father and had pinned every hope of happiness on my doctor – and requested that I make the boy sleep until three in the morning when he was to take me to meet my Boswell once more.

0o0o0o0


	13. Chapter 13

Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing

Authors Notes: Strong tones of Holmes/Watson friendship/brotherhood.

Warnings – I discuss the vile practice of men preying on young boys for unsavoury purposes in this one – and Holmes comes to the wrong conclusion (I can't say anything else cos it'll ruin the suspense). Just thought that you should know that topic comes up later on; nothing graphic is described though.

**Medals Not Worn In Public**

**The Middle of the End – Holmes**

Watson had done his usual excellent job with his annotations, though there were one or two threads that he had missed in the columns that I noted myself for him to peruse later. Tommy's 'work' was the completion of several pages of arithmetic in an exercise book of the type given to school children his age – if the child went to one of the better schools – before securing a meal for us that I nibbled on to appease the child, and retiring to one end of the bed. Parkerson's letter contained some instructions as to how to improve his disguise whilst out and about and his box had copies of several key and damning documents that we would need to return to England when we left. It seemed that the Syndicate had people close to the Palace at home, something that would require very careful handling in person.

I awoke Tommy ten minutes before we were due to start off and the boy grinned up at me, tipping me a saucy wink and straightening rumpled clothes before leading the way out into the still busy street. We had hidden the dispatch tins again and the door lock was sturdier than one might expect, but it didn't do to take chances.

Tommy led us through a series of back alleyways and lanes with a sure tread. We were moving from the slightly impoverished area that our lodging was located in to the better up kept area that housed the regiment. At this time of night I would have thought Watson's duty long over for the day, but Tommy led us around to a large single story building entrenched behind wide verandas littered with invalid couches and low tables. The child had a key and led us in through a side door into dimly lit wide corridors with stone floors swept to an inch of their life.

We passed by silent wards, avoiding the lone lighted desk in each where the duty orderly sat drooping over sundry books and newspapers. Each silent footstep brought a thrill of anticipation as it carried me ever closer to my errant biographer. With the loss of my burden of grief over my missing Irregular I looked forward once more with a light heart to Watson's return to my side.

There was noise ahead and bustle; at Tommy's gesture we melted into the shadows and drew level with the doorway to observe the cause of the stir. An orderly was bent over a moaning patient, illuminated by a lamp. The rest of the ward was in darkness, made deeper by the pool of light around the lamp. The shadows stirred at the far end of the ward and Watson's slightly uneven footsteps – a sound I could identify anywhere – alerted me that it was he approaching the orderly and patient.

I had always known my Watson was a soldier. His time in the Army was marked in his every move and gesture. His upright character and steadfast nature proclaimed his time in the service of his Monarch as clearly as his ability to cogitate a plan for victory whilst fighting for his life. However the reality of it had always been as a phantasm, floating just beyond my grasp. Surely this stern and solemn man was not the same that shared my cab, my breakfast table, my triumphs and hardships. The Watson of Baker Street was a man of warmth and humour. The Watson of this place was coolly controlled and implacable. Although the compassionate and intelligent nature that he brought to his practice of medicine was still evident in the glimmer of his eyes, there was no sense that his charming and excellent personality was also in play.

The soldierly doctor advanced up the ward and bent over the moaning man, his hands busy at the crook of his elbow for a moment. A few murmured words settled the patient, though my Watson waited with a hand upon his shoulder until he slept. He drew the orderly and the lamp back to the mans post and placed the lamp back on the tall desk while the orderly disposed of the used syringe properly.

"He'll sleep now until morning," Surgeon Watson murmured quietly, "Though you should check on him in an hour. Fetch me at once if there is any change."

"Yes sir," the orderly nodded and took his seat. Watson stepped out of the light into the corridor and turned away from us. Once out of sight of the orderly he paused for a moment, which allowed Tommy to dart from my side to his, wrapping thin arms around my Boswell's waist. A gentle hand ghosted over the red hair and a faint chuckle reached my ears. Then Watson's free hand was in mine and a spark of the life I was accustomed to seeing twinkled at me in the near darkness.

The four of us retired to the small office that he was using, lit with one or two lamps and meticulously tidy. In the brighter light I could see that my dear friend had lost most of the healthy weight that Mrs Hudson had struggled to pack upon his frame and that his face was drawn with strain at the eyes.

"I met them as you said, Father," Tommy whispered as Parkerson shut the door silently, "And I made sure that Mr 'Olmes 'ad 'is dinner."

I laughed in my silent fashion as Watson praised the imp with gentle amusement, patting his shoulder and straightening the collar of his shirt. I crossed the room to his side as he turned his eyes my way.

"I am very glad to see you Holmes," he murmured quietly, "And I must beg your forgiveness for keeping Tommy by me with no word home."

"You have no kith nor kin in England," I murmured, "Although Mrs Hudson and the boys were somewhat distressed, I would rather the boy to have been with you than suffering a worse fate."

"They thought I were dead," Tommy added painfully, causing Watson to blanche with horror, going white to the lips. I pushed him carefully into his own chair and settled on his desk, my hand planted firmly on his shoulder. His hand ghosted over my knee in silent sympathy, a keen glance assessing and diagnosing my health since we last met and deploring it – all in the space of the merest moment.

The look that passed between us said all that there was to say on the subject and I retired to the nearest chair.

"We must be quiet, though I do not anticipate any further disturbance tonight," Watson murmured, "And we must be brief and to the point."

"Very well," I nodded and settled back, waiting for him to begin.

"There are three tasks before us," Watson said quietly, "We must firstly secure, through the most subtle of measures, a copy of the key to Mr Phineas Donegal's safe. From this safe we must extract his account books. They contain the accounts of the syndicate themselves and will furnish us with the final names required for the successful closure of the case. Finally, using those names, we must secure, by whatever means necessary, the remaining proofs of those involved in the Syndicate and get that information to Her Majesty with all possible haste. The third task will require that we move with the utmost speed and coordination, lest the Syndicate dissolve beyond our reach."

"These are the Major's orders?" Parkerson asked quietly, leaning forward eagerly. Watson nodded silently, glancing at me and the boy lounging against his desk. I took his meaning at once. Parkerson was not to be trusted – Tommy was to assist me in the course of my investigation.

"When you have the ledgers we will meet again – until that time I will be unable to assist you at all. My duties here are such that any absence or change in my patterns would be noted at once and commented on. I cannot afford to draw notice to my work here at this time."

"Very well," Parkerson nodded. I quirked a small smile at my dearest friend and received a solemn tilt of the head in response.

"Tommy – get you to bed," Watson ordered, "You'll be busy with Holmes in the morning."

"We will see you soon, old chap," I promised and Tommy once more led the way out into the darkened hospital, leaving behind my unfamiliar friend.

0o0o0o0


	14. Chapter 14

Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing

Authors Notes: Strong tones of Holmes/Watson friendship/brotherhood.

Warnings – I discuss the vile practice of men preying on young boys for unsavoury purposes in this one – and Holmes comes to the wrong conclusion (I can't say anything else cos it'll ruin the suspense). Just thought that you should know that topic comes up later on; nothing graphic is described though.

**Medals Not Worn In Public**

**The Middle of the End – Watson**

It was evident to me that I should have made a greater effort to devise a way to contact Holmes. Tommy's shrill cries for his 'father' on that Continental train had wakened a dormant instinct in me: when the dust settled I suddenly had a 'son' and an even greater responsibility than had been first impressed upon me. Holmes had paid dearly for it though, the traces of the black fit he'd suffered still clearly visible on his frame, something that could never be sufficiently regretted. However I had no time for remorse if I was to carry out my duties as required.

All the evidence pointed towards military involvement in the Syndicate, which made a twisted sort of sense. Only the military was used to organising large groups of men to work at disparate tasks over long distances – the method and means of swift and secure communication and protocols for rapid or precisely co-ordinated action already existed. The lower ranks could be asked to carry out small tasks that would not seem out of place to them, but that would contribute to a larger picture. It only required men of sufficient rank, placed carefully in key locations for this to be carried off successfully and that was what we were dealing with here – a few rotten apples that were placed in such a way as to contaminate the entire barrel.

It was not to be borne and so I was more than glad to devote my entire being to cutting the rot out and setting things back to rights. Of course it had taken me longer than I would have liked and eventually I had managed to convince those that were ostensibly in charge of this investigation that I required help – more, that I required the assistance of the one man in the Empire that I knew could not be bought, suborned or otherwise impeded. Holmes subsequent arrival was of immense comfort to me. I had no doubt that I would not be able to complete my task without him.

That I had dearly wounded my friend by my deception was plain and something I would never forgive myself for. He took the care of his Irregulars seriously – the irretrievable loss of one to such a bad situation would have been akin to a mortal blow. I could see clearly in his too thin frame and pallor that he had fallen into a terrible black fit – I could only hope that upon my return to England he would allow me to make some sort of recompense for my part in it. I could not regret claiming Tommy as a son, the boy had always been close to me in London – it was Tommy who ran my errands and shadowed me on rounds whenever he could, fascinated by my work. It had been I that the boy had latched onto during his brief tenure at Baker Street, perhaps because I had been in the habit of taking a more personal interest in the Irregulars than Holmes. He saw to their employment and safety, whilst I saw to their health and – regrettably spotty – education.

Whatever the case may be, I put aside any thoughts of returning home and focussed on my daily duties. I could not afford to betray to those that were our quarry that we were closing in upon them. It was not difficult to follow my established routine. Tommy knew not to speak of Holmes during our daily meetings and I had my on duty hours, coupled with the times that I volunteered to the local charity hospitals and clinic when off duty. My superiors had long recognised that fostering any goodwill in the community the garrison was posted in was beneficial in the long run and so the officers that had the skill to make such gestures were encouraged to do so.

I spotted that Parkerson chap on two different occasions during this time. His lapses were a terrible cause for concern with me; they spoke to his ability to give Holmes the assistance he needed on the case. My friend could not afford to be given away in the midst of this case – we were so far from London and its familiar network of people and streets that Holmes would have a much harder time of it should his presence here be discovered.

The men that had sought Parkerson and Holmes upon their arrival had yet to locate them. The small safe house that I had established in one of the poorer sections of Bombay was still secure for now: Tommy had also reported that Holmes had established a second one that Parkerson was unaware of – a clear indication of Holmes' opinion of the young man's degree of competence. However, I had only a few moments each day to think about such things – I knew all to well that to dwell upon them risked betraying both Holmes presence and his mission.

Thus I relied upon my busy schedule. The army hospital was not so terribly busy that I did not have time to go out into the city and work in the clinics there, which had the double benefit of giving me access to a wide range of people and their gossip. I had become, over my years in Baker Street, something of an expert in gossip. I could almost always pick the kernel of truth from the innuendo that surrounded it, an invaluable skill when ones comrade hunted through the agony columns. Using the gossip I was able to discern that the syndicate was yet unaware of our work here and that Holmes, for I assumed it was he, had been hired to fix the pipes in several key houses.

Two weeks after his arrival, Holmes came once more to the hospital late at night to finalise our plans.

0o0o0o0


	15. Chapter 15

Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing

Authors Notes: Strong tones of Holmes/Watson friendship/brotherhood.

Warnings – I discuss the vile practice of men preying on young boys for unsavoury purposes in this one – and Holmes comes to the wrong conclusion (I can't say anything else cos it'll ruin the suspense). Just thought that you should know that topic comes up later on; nothing graphic is described though.

**Medals Not Worn In Public**

**The End of the End – Holmes**

In fourteen short days we had what we needed to close the case – but those short days were long enough to wreak further havoc upon my Boswell's constitution. I could see now why the Army had retired him after Maiwand and the terrible fever that had followed. His description of his nerves as 'shattered' was at once truthful and misleading. My dear Watson was no sadly enervated, unmanned wretch, jumping at the slightest sound; though his sleep was still plagued from time to time, his nerves were as strong as any man you would care to name. It was his constitution that could not support him, his body physically unable to bear the strain of active duty for more than short periods at a time.

I had wondered once why the man insisted on napping before slipping from our Baker Street home of an evening to catch the criminals we sought, where his obsession with eating in the midst of a case came from. Now I knew it for what it was, the stern measures of a man who knew all too well his physical limits; a man who took the safety of those around him as his responsibility and therefore plied whatever measures he could to stave off the lingering effects of a shattered body plagued by old pain, devastating illness and lingering weariness.

It was an unwelcome realisation – doubly so that it came at such a crucial time.

"We have the final proofs that the Queen's Major requires to complete his case," Parkerson murmured as Tommy stood watch by his ersatz fathers office door, "However, Mr Holmes has determined that he will need to commit one more burglary – and that the officer he is burglaring needs to be kept out of the way for as long as it takes to return to England."

"I see," Watson nodded, giving me a long look. I nodded imperceptibly and he sighed, "I assume you're speaking of Colonel Waterston."

"How did you…?" Parkerson spluttered and I was amused to see Watson forget his manners and roll his eyes impatiently.

"I am no novice at this game," he reminded Parkerson, a thread of impatience in his voice, "I have also been here from the off."

"We can move on Sunday night, there is a boat back to England then, it covers the most direct route," I announced quietly. Watson nodded once more and glanced at his watch.

"I need to inform… those that need to know," he murmured, "I assume you have already formed a plan?"

"We have," I confirmed, pleased that he understood me so well, that our time apart had not dampened our ability to converse at two levels.

"Very well. I shall find you tomorrow and we will all discuss this in detail," Watson nodded. Tommy caught the hand gesture our doctor made and nodded, leading the way back out of the hospital.

Once outside it was a moment's work to return to the now familiar network of small streets and alleyways that made up the poorer section of Bombay. It was an easy task to slip away from Parkerson, mostly because he was so determined to do the same himself. Tommy was sent to the second safe house that I had established, though he went very reluctantly, whilst I doubled back and picked up Parkerson's trail. I had never taken the time to teach him to better his technique, though that was hardly and oversight on my part. The man was not to be trusted.

It was not difficult to locate him, nor was it hard to shadow him as he shadowed Watson. My Boswell walked with calm purpose from the hospital grounds into the streets of Bombay, moving away from the regiment at a steady pace as we had agreed in our unspoken conversation in his office. Parkerson had not the slightest clue that he was being set up for a fall. Watson did not once look around to check for shadows, though he did pause once or twice as if listening for footsteps as he led us steadily onward, moving with studied purpose. It was not hard to deduce his destination, and I closed the gap between the three of us quickly as Watson took a shortcut down a narrow side street.

It was a moments work to club Parkerson from behind, the deadly knife in his hand falling to the filthy street with less noise than his body.

"Good to see you old chap," Watson beamed at me, "I take it my acting was sufficient?"

"You didn't look around once," I informed him, "Capital mistake when portraying a man not wanting to be followed. However, the pauses were a nice touch," I hastened to add when he looked a little crestfallen.

"Now, what to do with him?" Watson mused, "It is tempting to leave him here, but he would be dead by morning and traitor to the Crown or not, no man deserves to die like that."

"There is a mental hospital here," I suggested slyly, "A small dose of a rather interesting drug that I have found would lead to a temporary form of madness. You would be able to have him released before you leave India."

I watched as my friends ethics warred with the importance of the task before him – after a brief battle he acquiesced. Had we been in London there would have been plenty of places for us to stash a man, places that would do less damage to his reputation or health should it come out he had been seen there. As it was, this was our only option, as Watson well knew.

"You have compelling evidence that he is in their pay?" my doctor asked as we hefted the limp body between us, "I sent him to your brother more on a suspicion than anything else. When he did not report your arrival to his superiors I began to doubt my conclusions."

"He has been reporting to his immediate superior; Colonel Waterston. The man is making a power play within the organisation – he wished to control who we apprehended in order to further his own fortunes," I replied. Watson grimaced in anger and nodded to show that he understood.

"I will come and find you in the morning," he promised, "Take care, Holmes."

"And you, old friend," I murmured as he slipped away, heading back to his post.

0o0o0

Tommy had been asleep when I returned to my own set of rooms. It was the work of a moment to secrete the documentary evidence we had gathered into the linings of his and my coat. We two would be leaving for England before twenty four hours had passed, though Watson would remain behind. Colleague or not, he was once more enlisted in Her Majesties service, which meant he couldn't simply leave when he wanted to. I would have to wait for him to complete his tour of duty here before he could return to his rightful place in Baker Street. Though I would never dream of expressing it out loud, I resented that the loyalty of my dearest friend could take him from my side at the word of another. The only thing that made the knowledge bearable was the fact that the only one in the Empire who could order Watson away from my side was the same person who ruled over us all.

With Parkerson incarcerated at the mental hospital, we would be able to act freely to bring this matter to a close. While there was indeed a boat on Sunday, it would take too long for us to reach England if we were to travel upon it. I had worked out a much faster route for us by combining land and sea travel to the best effect. The sooner I closed the case in England, the sooner Watson could return.

It seemed as if only minutes passed before the sun arose, and only moments later Watson's familiar knock sounded on the door. Tommy woke to the sound and beamed as I let his adopted father in, sitting up and greeting us with a yawned hello.

"Good morning, my boy," Watson crossed the room to sit beside Tommy, tousling already wild hair, "We have to talk about the events that are taking place tonight."

"But I thought…" Tommy trailed off when he realised that Parkerson was not present, "Yew mean Parkerson was in on it? All along?"

"Yes," I replied, impressed at his reasoning skills, "We have found a way to keep him out of the public eye for a time, but the sooner we move, the sooner this will be over."

"To that end, you will return to England ahead of me, with your Uncle," Watson added, his voice stern and implacable. There was no room for negotiation and I could see that the tone had effectively taken the will to resist the idea from my former Irregular. Tommy nodded unhappily, curling under Watson's arm and hiding his face in Watson's side. I was relieved that we would not have to argue the boy down as there was much to do today if we were to be ready to leave tonight.

"I need tickets, Tommy," I informed the boy, "I have the note and money here, but you will have to queue for some time to get them. Whilst you are securing our means of escape, your father and I will go after the final documents we need to close the case once and for all."

"Yer goin' in _daylight_?" the boy sounded incredulous and with good reason. No burglar who knew their trade attempted to complete a heist when the household was active. It was the most risky ventures of all, but we didn't have time to waste.

"It's alright," Watson reassured him, "Holmes will meet you at the dock with the last of the evidence. Tommy – I cannot emphasise the importance of this. The mission could well fail if we lose time looking for you. Should news of the theft come out, they will be searching for two men travelling together, or a man travelling alone. A boy and his Uncle will go unnoticed – Holmes will be counting on you to keep up the façade."

"I won't let yer down," Tommy promised, though there were tears in his eyes, "But yer need to hurry up and come home too, Fath. Promise me yer will."

"As soon as this is all over I will," Watson promised, his voice pitched to us both, "I will take the first boat home, you have my word."

"That's alright then," Tommy wiped his face, "Yer'd never go back on yer _word_."

"Good lad," Watson smiled and we sent the child on his way.

"How will you explain his absence?" I asked as we also left the small safe house. Watson exchanged greetings with a street vendor and then shot a small glance at me.

"I will tell the truth," he replied, a mischievous tilt to his lips, "My long lost brother agreed to take the child home to England and see to his future. He'd do well in a chemists employ – or as an under clerk to an accountant."

"I'll see what I can do," I nodded, warmed by the trust being placed in me. Watson would not give the boy over to just anyone's charge.

0o0o0

Colonel Waterston's quarters were large, almost palatial in construction, and surrounded by a well kept walled garden. Though I was planning to leave through the garden, it had never been part of our plan to enter by means of subterfuge. Watson had an early appointment with the Colonel and I was to accompany him. Once inside we would overpower the Colonel in such a way as to remove him from command of the Regiment. Watson would remain behind to keep the Colonel under control whilst I hot footed my way back to England. Though my dear friend had several qualms about misusing his art to our ends, the requirements of our Monarch left us no room to manoeuvre. Considerations such as his Physicians Oath had to be put to the side if our task was to succeed.

Watson had arranged the early morning appointment in order to further his story that the Colonel was ill – it would look as if the corrupt man had taken a sudden turn for the worse whilst being examined. While this would raise suspicions in some quarters we were confident that the truth of the matter could be contained long enough for me to return to England with the evidence we hoped to gain. The Queen's Major had arranged to take over command should the Colonel be incapacitated, though I was unsure how a Major could outrank a Colonel, even a sick one.

We were shown by a native servant through the lavishly furnished halls of the Colonel's home to the mans private study, which I was pleased to see had a series of French windows overlooking the garden. In my surveillance of the house I had tentatively identified this as the room that we were most interested in, however I had not dared to test the mans security for a better look for fear of tipping him off. At night the garden was patrolled by loose dogs and several native servants of a most sinister appearance. Any alarm in the nights leading to our final move would have made our task impossible to complete.

Waterston was visibly ill at ease, something which played into our hands for our later story. Evidently he had been expecting to hear from Parkerson by now – that he hadn't heard from his spy was obviously concerning the man. I had to admit that I was somewhat surprised at the obvious signs of unease that the Colonel was betraying – I had expected someone in his position to be much more in control of himself.

He had received us cordially enough – or rather he had received Major Watson and his native secretary cordially enough – but as the interview went on it became apparent that he was becoming suspicious of Watson's reason for the appointment. Fortunately, my Watson was a quick study when it came to detecting a change in manner and he used it as an opening to begin the final phase of our work here in India.

"Forgive me Colonel, but are you quite well? You appear distracted," Surgeon Watson stood from his uncomfortable chair and rounded the desk that separated him from his quarry with me trailing after him, holding his medical bag and opening it somewhat clumsily.

"Quite well, thank you," the Colonel said with asperity, eyeing me with disdain as I struggled ineptly with the fastening and thus missing the loaded syringe that Watson had concealed in his sleeve prior to our arrival. We eased the man back into his chair and I leapt for the door even as Watson began searching the desk with silent efficiency. With the door locked it was a moment's work to locate the safe and several more to crack it. Waterston's arrogance was such that the evidence we needed was there – the man had obviously felt that he was untouchable and thus had taken no extraordinary measures to protect the sensitive and damning data that implicated him and his fellows in their illegal activities.

"Colonel Sahib?" a voice called from the hall beyond the closed door. Watson shot me a glance and I moved swiftly to return everything to rights whilst he applied the final touches to our ruse. I took the small especially crafted tool from his hand and secreted it and the papers on my person even as I raised my voice in alarm.

"Snake! Sahib watch out!"

Even as I spoke the door was thrown open by the native butler and I leapt through the French windows, supposedly in pursuit of the serpent that had just bitten the Colonel, rendering him unconscious. The small tool I had fashioned last night was shaped like the fang of a serpent; if applied correctly it would appear that the Colonel had been bitten on the hand when he had disturbed the reptile. Watson had assured me that it was not unheard of for a snake to enter a human dwelling in search of food or water and had emphasised that he would be able to keep the Colonel out of circulation for long enough with a series of treatments that would be ineffective at curing the snakes bite.

The house behind me was in uproar as I scaled the wall and headed at a run for the nearest side street. I had a an Irregular to meet and a boat to catch.

The sooner we reached England and saw an end to this affair, the sooner my Watson would be able to return home. That day could not come soon enough for me.

0o0o0o0


	16. Chapter 16

Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing

Authors Notes: Strong tones of Holmes/Watson friendship/brotherhood.

Warnings – I discuss the vile practice of men preying on young boys for unsavoury purposes in this one – and Holmes comes to the wrong conclusion (I can't say anything else cos it'll ruin the suspense). Just thought that you should know that topic comes up later on; nothing graphic is described though.

**Medals Not Worn In Public**

**Epilogue – Mrs Hudson**

Mr Holmes sent a telegram to tell his long suffering landlady that he would be back for his dinner, with a guest. She was glad he was back in England – the boys were moping without him and the house was far too quiet. She still hadn't heard from Dr Watson – though his cheques came like clockwork, prepared by a bank clerk on his instructions. She was beginning to worry about him – it was so unlike the man to simply disappear with no word to those he left behind. Even on the few occasions that he'd taken a holiday without Mr Holmes, the good doctor had sent the house postcards and letters, assuring his family – of a sort – of his well being and asking after theirs. To be gone for months on end like this in complete silence… Martha was beginning to think she would have to get Mr Holmes to look for him, just so they knew he was well.

Perhaps the work would keep him from sinking back into that terrible black fit that he'd entered when they'd lost little Tommy. Her nerves couldn't take another strain like that and she doubted that Mr Holmes' could either. He still hadn't looked entirely natural when his brother – a shocking discovery indeed – had packed him off out of the country with work to do. Martha supposed it was too much to ask that he'd taken care of himself on his travels and thus prepared his evening meal accordingly – large portions of his favourite foods to tempt his mercurial appetite.

Of course, just because she'd got the telegram this morning didn't mean that Mr Holmes had only just arrived. Though Baker Street was his home, Mr Holmes had more than one place to hang his hat in an emergency, something Martha secretly approved of. After all, if she ever did have to evict the man she had the solace of knowing he wouldn't have to fend for himself on the streets.

Knowing Mr Holmes as she did, Martha did not expect him to arrive much earlier than the last possible minute, which true to form, he did. His key in the lock brought a smile to her face and she wiped my hands on a nearby towel before going out to meet him. His guest was a slender young man, standing quietly and taking in our front hall as Mr Holmes hung up his hat on its usual hook. From the way it glistened, the rain that had been threatening all day had begun to fall, which meant the streets would e miserably cold and wet. Martha made a mental note to get some hearty broth on for the boys.

"Mrs Hudson!" he cried upon spying her, "You're looking well, dear lady!"

He flung his hands out and took hers, beaming at her with that mischievous glint in his eyes that always made her itch to box his ears – just on principal. He did look well though, still as thin and scrawny as ever, a little worried about the eyes, but all in all Martha could tell his case had been a success.

"Thank you sir," she replied with a slight warning to her tone. He'd only been in the house for a minute, surely he could control his shenanigans a bit longer, "We've missed you. The boys ask after you daily, they'll be glad to know that you're back."

"I believe you know my guest," Mr Holmes turned to the young man behind him though now Martha was closer she could see he was still a boy, one going through a growth spurt if the awkwardness was anything to go by. Mr Holmes freed one hand and ushered the boy forward with it, taking off his hat and letting familiar red locks glint in the lamp light.

"Tommy!" Martha cried and the boy leapt over to hug her, stammering apologies as he did. The lad looked so well! Wherever he'd been and whoever he'd been with before Mr Holmes had rescued him hadn't abused the lad, I could tell that at once. There was none of the mannerisms one would expect of an abused child, and it did her old heart good to see it.

She rapped him smartly on the backside for scaring them all and demanded to know where he'd been and how her tenant had managed to locate him at last.

"Come join us for dinner, dear lady and all shall be revealed. In fact, we shall join you in the kitchen, I insist!" Mr Holmes had shrugged out of his coat and hung it up, prompting their lost boy to remove his own coat as well, hanging it just as carefully. Martha swept a mothers eye over him and approved the changes at once – he was clean, well fed and someone had taken the time to teach him to be proud of his appearance.

"Yew'll never guess where we've bin, Mother Hudson," Tommy confided, his hand wrapped firmly in hers as she led the way back to the kitchen, "The Palace, no less! Me! In the Palace – and not cos I was knicking somethin'!"

That last made Mr Holmes laugh heartily as they entered her kitchen and she smother her own snickers behind a hand before pushing the boy to sit in one of her kitchen chairs. Mr Holmes was already pulling out plates and cutlery, though how he knew where everything was made her a little suspicious as she'd made it very clear he wasn't to trespass on her kitchen!

"Sit down, dear lady and let the lad tell you all," Mr Holmes waved a thin hand at her and started rummaging for her serving spoons. Martha got up and pushed him into a chair as well, holding his shoulders firmly to get him to stay put. From the laughter Tommy was smothering in his sleeve, Mr Holmes face was a picture.

"I like my kitchen tidy, sir. You sit and the lad can tell me all while I plate up," Martha scolded lightly, though she patted his shoulders in reward when he subsided with only a squirm of protest.

Her heart was a thousand times lighter already. Now all they needed was for Dr Watson to return home and her happiness would be complete.

0o0o0o0


	17. Chapter 17

Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing

Authors Notes: Strong tones of Holmes/Watson friendship/brotherhood.

Warnings – I discuss the vile practice of men preying on young boys for unsavoury purposes in this one – and Holmes comes to the wrong conclusion (I can't say anything else cos it'll ruin the suspense). Just thought that you should know that topic comes up later on; nothing graphic is described though.

**Medals Not Worn In Public**

**Epilogue – Holmes**

We had to wait another month before our Watson was returned to us. In the meantime, Tommy was established in a reputable chemist – a former client who took a liking to the boy's wit and street-wise ways. My former Irregular would never be a doctor, but it was not beyond his reach to rise to a position where he could dispense medicines… a poor second some might say, but for a child of the streets it was an achievement of stellar proportions.

My 'troops' had welcomed him back with open arms. Once the facts of the matter were known to them, all was forgiven. It seemed that they all considered themselves at Watson's complete disposal and although they would have preferred that word had been left to reassure them; they understood that circumstances had played against Watson's hand this time. Tommy's additional comments as to his role as carer for my doctor – and his subsequent description of Watson's failing health – drew a line under the matter.

Mycroft had been surprised by the information that my Boswell had been the man who summoned me, though Her Majesty had not. She had twinkled at my older brother with regal mischief and informed him that She was surprised he had not deduced who Her Major was. The look on my elder brother's face was more than amusing, and it had been with difficulty that I had contained my laughter. Thankfully young Tommy had already been dismissed after his brief audience with Her Majesty, leaving behind his coat and its contents; I shudder to think of his reaction in a place where decorum of the highest order was required. I had of course deduced that Watson was the officer Her Majesty had dispatched – who better than my Boswell to carry out such a delicate and dangerous mission for his Monarch?

Her Majesty condescended to assure me that my doctor was safe enough and had assumed command of the Regiment with no opposition. Events were already in movement to secure the last of the officers that had opposed Her Majesties interests and besmirched her honour, with Watson overseeing it all. I was promised the return of my dearest friend in 'due course', an inaccurate and vague timeline, but one could not argue with one's Monarch over such matters… at least not with impunity. As we were leaving I made the mistake of asking my brother how it was that a Major could supplant a Colonel so easily in command and was given one of those withering looks that elder brothers seem to specialise in. Despite Watson's involvement in it, I had not taken the time to learn much about the command structure of Her Majesties forces beyond the obvious progression of ranks, as the knowledge was not important to my work. Watson certainly never alluded to his time serving under the Shilling unless it was somehow relevant to the work at hand.

"He's a Major _General_ Sherlock," Mycroft growled, "Don't be obtuse."

He had clearly expected me to be shocked that my dearest friend had risen so quickly and so high in Her Majesties forces, but I was not. In fact it now made sense. Of course Watson was a highly promoted and respected officer… he was _Watson_. You only had to meet the man to know that he was a cut above the rest.

The newspapers were soon reporting the scandal, which rapidly became the talk of London. Mrs Hudson took to reading the papers with me over the breakfast table, a liberty I allowed as she was so obviously concerned for our missing doctors well-being. Tommy had not been as discrete as I would have liked when describing his worries for his 'fathers' health. This had in turn alarmed our landlady. As Watson was the one more accustomed to soothing her worries and alarums, his absence was even more keenly felt by us both, though I did make an attempt in my own fashion to reassure her. I am not sure that it was entirely successful.

My dear friend arrived home without fanfare or warning. As Mrs Hudson was clearing away the breakfast things there was the scrape of a cab wheel outside our windows and I crossed to glance down in curiosity. I had been expecting Gregson today – he'd been struggling with a small ring of petty thieves for a few days now and was due to visit and request my assistance. Instead of the tow headed Inspector, my Watson alighted from the cab, dressed in the evening clothes he had been wearing when he first departed from Baker Street nearly six months ago.

"Watson!" I cried and startled Mrs Hudson into almost dropping the breakfast tray. I relieved her of it on my way past, taking the stairs two at a time and depositing the thing on the hall table outside her room. She was already at the door when I turned, flinging it open as Watson descended from the cab and tossed up his fare. Her cry of delight turned to a cry of dismay as she got her first look at her itinerant tenant, my own reaction not far behind hers.

The evening clothes that had fit him so well six months ago now hung from his frame. He was pale beneath the tropical tan that had once more burned him 'brown as a nut', and he relied on his cane more than I would like as he crossed the pavement and entered our front hall.

"I'll be having words with your commanding officer, young man!" Mrs Hudson was scolding, her arm already around Watson's as she lead him to the stairs, "Mr Holmes, nip ahead and fetch a change of clothes for the doctor, then run him a bath. I'll have a note for Dr Anstruther by the time you're done."

"Really, Mrs Hudson, that's not necessary. Old chap, you needn't bother…" Watson's protests fell upon deaf ears as I hurried to do my landlady's bidding. He looked worse than he had when he first moved into Baker Street, though at least this time there were no…

"Mrs Hudson! Mind his left side! He's been wounded there!" I called down the stairs behind me, realising that the stiffness I had seen in his movements portrayed a Watson protecting an injury, not a Watson stiff from a long journey. Watson's protests trailed off in the face of our landlady's scolds and by the time they reached the bathroom the geyser was bubbling away and Watson's nightclothes were resting on the dresser.

"Put him in my room, Mrs Hudson. I'll go fetch Anstruther at once," I breezed past with a pat to Watson's right shoulder, "I'll be back soon, old chap, try and rest."

"Holmes, this is really unnecessary," Watson muttered, but as he was still leaning heavily on his cane I ignored him as a matter of course.

The cab I had summoned with a shrill whistle trotted towards me as I brooded over a sharply worded reprimand on the issue of borrowing my Boswell and failing to return him to me in pristine condition. I could never send it of course, but there were other ways of expressing my disproval. The Premier, for instance, may find me less than inclined to drop everything for his next little problem…

0o0o0o0

The End

(Yes, I'm seriously leaving it there.)

Explanation: there is a lot of debate over Watson's participation as a member of the Medical Corp in WWI – some say there is no way they'd send an old man that had already been invalided out of the Army back to the Front Line, and others say that of course Watson would be in the thick of it, he's _Watson_.

This is my take on why Watson would be serving in WWI – not just because he would want to take the place of a young man and spare him the horrors of war, but because he was such a valuable asset that he would be deployed where he could do the most good – as a spy as well as a doctor. From there it seemed natural that Holmes would know about this… you know it all made sense in my head! Hope it was entertaining at least… let me know what you think?

Oh, and the title comes from the idea that Watson would have been promoted with honours (medals) that he never showed to anyone because of his modest nature… (hope that clears that up!)


End file.
